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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26623033">To Die a Hero’s Death</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingOutLoud/pseuds/WritingOutLoud'>WritingOutLoud</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Falling In Love, HolmesCon2020, M/M, Missing Scene, Post-Episode: s01e03 The Great Game, Pre-Slash</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 06:35:04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,404</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26623033</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingOutLoud/pseuds/WritingOutLoud</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In a stand-off with Moriarty, Sherlock and John wordlessly agreed to die together by the side of a swimming pool. Both have different reactions to this declaration of trust. </p><p>Missing Scene after ‘The Great Game’.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>100</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>HolmesCon Writers Collection</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. To die a hero’s death</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanadaHolm/gifts">88thParallel (CanadaHolm)</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This ficlet is for <a href="%E2%80%9C">88th Parallel</a>! She kindly gave permission for it to be posted on AO3. </p><p>~</p><p>Both parts of this fic run parallel to each other rather than being sequential chapters, theoretically you can read them in any order.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p>Did he want to die?</p>
<p>Was he so tired of life that a fiery death seemed welcoming? Was that why, sat on the cold tile, breathing chlorine scented air, he had placed his life in the hands of his detective? He had trusted Sherlock so completely that had the building fallen in fire and gunpowder; he would have welcomed it. He would have been ready. Was it because he wanted it?</p>
<p>After the brief conversation at the pool, they had travelled back to 221B in silence. John had tried, multiple times, to speak up— to break the veil that had fallen between them. Each time the words had melted from his throat. Nothing seemed appropriate. When you’ve agreed to die together in a darkened pool, everything else seems trivial.</p>
<p>He knows they should talk about it. Should set some boundaries and understand the gravitas of what they both agreed to, but John couldn’t get his mouth to form the words. In the end, they both retired to their separate bedrooms without uttering a word.</p>
<p>Now, lying in bed, his mind still buzzing with static adrenaline, John turns the events over and over in his mind. Sherlock’s panic when he’d thought John was Moriarty; the sharp stab of the needle in John’s neck when he was abducted from the street; the wordless agreement to burn together in the name of justice. The last part keeps sticking in John’s mind. How ready he had been to give his life over to Sherlock. Of all the things they’d been through that evening, this was the part which scared John the most.</p>
<p>He has looked death in the face before, far too many times, but the sureness he’d had in the second before he nodded to Sherlock was new. There was no hesitation, no desire to run; he had merely looked up at his friend and known how far he was willing to go. Even in Afghanistan, he had never felt so calm at the prospect of dying. Each time they were out on the field, his stomach would leap, and his heart would threaten to burst against his sternum, loudly protesting his apparent death wish. Yet with snipers trained on himself and Sherlock, his heart had been utterly steady. If death were to come to him at the hands of a madman, with Sherlock by his side, he was ready. John can’t decide why it was different.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He rolls over for the hundredth time, trying to get comfortable. The pillow feels too stiff under his head, and the sheets are making his skin itch. He throws them off in frustration, curling into a ball with his arms wrapped around his knees. Each time he closes his eyes, all he can see is Moriarty’s face smiling joylessly behind his eyelids. He can feel the weight of the Semtex on his chest; his lungs tighten, and his breaths become shallower. In the end, he settles for staring at the wall, hoping exhaustion will claim him soon.</p>
<p>These last three months, whilst different than the years of sand and heat, have given him more fulfilment than sewing broken bodies back together. He loved his time in the army; is adamant that it was the right choice for him, but there is a difference between patching up soldiers that walked in the way of bullets and helping people to whom bad luck had fallen. Jeff Hope destroyed the lives of at least four people, and John could directly see the lives they’d saved by stopping him. So many families received justice because of the cases they’d solved; the people they’d caught. Their effect was visceral, whereas, in the barren desert of Afghanistan, he had often felt that they were creating more unrest than they were preventing. He stopped people from dying, but he wasn’t saving their lives.</p>
<p>And then there was Sherlock. Sherlock who had cured his limp with dinner and the promise of danger— Sherlock who drove him round the bend one moment then had him in stitches the next— the man who shot walls when he was bored and didn’t know the earth revolved around the sun. John could feel himself steadily falling. In the beginning, Sherlock had made it pretty clear that he wasn’t interested in pursuing a relationship, and John knew he needed to be careful if he didn’t want to face the rejection again. It wasn’t easy when Sherlock was the only person to whom he gave his life so freely. He hoped, somewhat selfishly, that Sherlock would have changed his mind. That three months living with John would have driven Sherlock out of his self imposed celibacy and into the arms of the doctor. John thought about it, sometimes. Late at night, he’d allow himself to imagine what could happen if Sherlock did change his mind— if they could fall into the easiness of something that resembled a relationship. Those nights, he let his mind roam wild, but come morning, he guarded himself with an extra layer of cautiousness.</p>
<p>There is no way the man is a sociopath— John is sure of that. Why Sherlock seems convinced he has to spread that lie, John isn’t sure, but it is apparent to anyone who bothers to spend time with him that Sherlock is anything but. Moriarty had certainly seen it.</p>
<p>It’s true that sometimes the detective is unsure how to cope with his emotions, but they definitely exist. There are days when Sherlock hardly ventures from his room; sleeping for hours on end between cases. John is sure he suffers from depression those days, but they never talk about it. Instead, he leaves food by Sherlock’s door and stays in the flat in case he’s needed. Eventually it passes. After the black lotus case, when Soo Lin had died, Sherlock hadn’t emerged from his room for three days. John had spent the time steeped in worry, on the verge of asking the eldest Holmes for help, but the detective had eventually surfaced and acted as if no time had passed.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Exhaustion starts to prickle around John’s eyes. He tries to let them drift closed, but the second darkness descends he hears the sing-song taunts of Moriarty echo through the room. The scent of chlorine sticks in his nose, and he whimpers as his eyes snap open.</p>
<p>He’d been fine, in the moment. He’d been calm— prepared to go to any lengths to get the upper hand over Moriarty. Yet here, miles away from the pool and those dancing red dots, his heart beats frantically against his ribs each time he tries to fall asleep.</p>
<p>Which brings him back to the question; why had he been so prepared to die?</p>
<p>John is pulled from his cycle of anxiousness by the door creaking on its hinges. Bare feet stick to the floorboards, and the bed beside him sinks under the weight of a consulting detective. John turns to face the intruder as Sherlock pulls the covers back over him and sinks his head into the pillow.</p>
<p>“Couldn’t sleep?”</p>
<p>Sherlock gives a soft grunt that John translates as ‘obviously’.</p>
<p>John feels his shoulders relax, and he stretches out a little on the mattress, sliding a hand underneath his head. He can’t say he was expecting it, but having Sherlock so close to him is a relief. A silent reassurance that he is not alone in being haunted by that lilting Irish accent.</p>
<p>Sherlock’s eyes are closed, but his breaths are shallow enough to indicate that he’s not asleep. John searches his face, looking for answers in the creases of his skin. What was it about him that made John so willing to hand his life over? What was it that did what years of dodging bullets and navigating minefields had failed to achieve; feeling absolute trust to hand his life over for someone to use as they saw fit?</p>
<p>“I can feel you watching me.” Sherlock murmurs against the pillow. His voice is deep and soothing; John’s heart settles at the sound.</p>
<p>“Sorry,” John whispers, not tearing his eyes away.</p>
<p>“It’s okay.” Sherlock’s eyes open and catch John’s, both unashamedly staring at the other. There’s an openness there that John hasn’t noticed before. Usually, Sherlock guards his face carefully, making sure to hide the complex cascade of emotions beneath. Now his guard is completely dropped, allowing John to see the curiosity beneath the surface.</p>
<p>“What are you thinking?” Sherlock asks.</p>
<p>“Why you?”</p>
<p>Sherlock’s brow crinkles with confusion.</p>
<p>“Sorry?”</p>
<p>“I spent years in the middle of a war zone. I chase adrenaline as if I need it to breathe, but in all my life, I have only ever met one person I was ready to hand my life to without question. Why was it you?”</p>
<p>“Was it me? Or was it to stop him?”</p>
<p>John ponders the thought for a moment.</p>
<p>“Maybe it was both.”</p>
<p>“John, have you ever considered that above everything else, you like to help people? Yes, you love the adrenaline and the danger, but you also like being the hero.”</p>
<p>“What do you mean?”</p>
<p>“Think about it; you don’t actively seek activities that would give you an adrenaline rush. You don’t do extreme sports, most of your life is very ordinary— except for when someone else needs you. Then you step up; put yourself in situations that you otherwise wouldn’t. It’s why you joined the army, and it’s why you stayed with me.”</p>
<p>“You don’t need me,” John answers far too quickly. Sherlock’s eyes crease at the edges, betraying a gentle frustration.</p>
<p>“You underestimate yourself. Anyway, you help people. I solve people’s murders; you save their lives.”</p>
<p>John considers it, and pieces of the puzzle start to fit into place. He’d felt helpless for so long— watching his friends die around him as he spread himself thinner and thinner, trying to save everyone. John hadn’t been a hero; no-one needed saving. His job consisted of holding stupid people together. He’d lost faith in the war he was fighting a long time before that bullet found his shoulder, but he kept on mending the casualties anyway. Now, for the first time, he feels as if he is making a difference.</p>
<p>And that is why, when faced with a man who had reigned more malicious destruction than any other individual he’s met, he had been perfectly content to give his life to stop him. But it was Sherlock who’d allowed him to be the person he’d wished he could be, so it was Sherlock he trusted more than anyone to carry out the deed. Sherlock, who apparently needed him.</p>
<p>“You need me?”</p>
<p>Sherlock’s face softens, an earnestness resting in his eyes.</p>
<p>“Of course, I need you. You— you keep me right.”</p>
<p>John’s smile spreads slowly across his face, warming his cheeks.</p>
<p>“I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”</p>
<p>“Oh, shut up. I can be nice sometimes.”</p>
<p>“Sometimes being the optimal word.”</p>
<p>John can’t help the giggle that escapes his mouth. After a few seconds, Sherlock is echoing him, the unapologetic joy ringing out in the darkness. As it ebbs, Sherlock reaches out to take John’s hand in his, brushing his lips softly across the knuckles.</p>
<p>John’s breath catches in his throat, and he lets his eyes drift closed. For the first time that evening, it is not the emotionless face of Moriarty imprinted on his eyelids, but the soft lines of his consulting detective. There is an easiness in the space between them, an invisible boundary that they have crossed. John is sure, for the first time, that he is not alone in the love that has started to well inside him. He doesn’t want to rush; to allow the lingering adrenaline to take control of the situation and lessen its meaning, but he feels settled knowing that he does not imagine the longing stares and electric sparks. When they are ready, they will be waiting for each other; silently promising to live.</p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. A promise to survive</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Did he want to live?</p><p>Sherlock Holmes had never been precious with his life. He both loved and hated his brain- it allowed him to see things the average person would ignore; collect torrents of information and sift through it until he found what was important; the identity of a thief; the occupation of a stranger. It made him unique, the ability to observe what no other man could, but it also left him exhausted. It wasn’t a trick he could turn on and off at will; he was continually barraged with excess stimuli that rarely had importance. As a young adult, he’d turned to the comfort of drugs, cocaine being his weapon of choice. For the first time, his mind became quiet and subdued, all excess information dulled. Of course, cocaine came with a hefty warning label, but for the most part, he didn’t care. He fell deeper and deeper into the well of his own mind, indifferent as to whether he could ever crawl back out. He stopped caring about his life. After all, his body was just transport;the only thing that mattered was his mind. Keeping it quiet. Keeping it numb.</p><p>Eventually, the Work had replaced the drugs, giving him an outlet for the mess of his brain. He could let himself focus on all the stimuli without fear of being overwhelmed, and as much as he craved them, the drugs became irrelevant. He had a purpose, a discipline to keep his mind in check. Still, he never thought twice about throwing himself headfirst into danger, never particularly caring about whether he made it out. Death was inevitable, what was the point of fearing it?</p><p>For years he danced with the line between carelessness and neglect, until he found himself a blogger. Over time, his lack of self-respect lessened. There were still days when he’d make impulse decisions, some of which led to being beaten unconscious by a suspect, or being on the verge of dehydration after focusing on an experiment too long, but the occasions became fewer and far between. Sherlock couldn’t pretend he hadn’t noticed. Still, he concluded that it was not a conscious decision but the introduction of people that realised when he didn’t eat for days, or pointed out when he was about to apprehend someone without proper backup. John always insisted on preparing for things, rather than taking the haphazard approach that Sherlock had adopted most of his life.</p><p>But something changed that night at the pool. They had turned to each other, and in a single nod, John handed his life over to Sherlock. John had trusted him so completely, and it made the detective uneasy. Where before he would not have thought twice about pulling that trigger and bringing the building to its knees, now Sherlock hesitated. He waited for Moriarty to show his hand. He let him get away.</p><p>If he was alone, or if it were anyone else stood at that poolside, Sherlock wouldn’t have thought twice. He would have shot the Semtex and sent them all up in flames. But there was John, and Sherlock was suddenly afraid of dying.</p><p>His brain had been overflowing during the journey home, unable to process what had transpired in that pool. Both himself and John remained silent for the journey, only bidding a brief goodnight before they hurried to their separate beds. Now, he paces beneath the open window, filled with static energy he can’t seem to shake. He doesn’t understand what’s different; it’s just transport; he never cared about what happened to it before- never thought to think past tomorrow. But now he is filled with a desire for self-preservation. No, that isn’t quite right; he has a desire to protect. His life is no longer his own.</p><p>Sherlock is wearing nothing but a baggy t-shirt and boxers, and the bed is still made from the previous morning- he hasn’t even tried to sleep; there’s too much adrenaline in his system. It makes his skin shiver— the excess energy trying to escape in any way possible. It’s not a new feeling, he often feels like this after a case, but usually his mind is not quite as noisy. There are so many thoughts racing after each other, all begging for his attention. What had pulled Moriarty away? What was he planning next? Why was Sherlock so afraid to die?</p><p> </p><p>The bedroom feels so empty. He knows every inch of it; can describe in detail each scuff on the floorboards; every dent in the wallpaper, but now it seems different. As if someone has shifted all his belongings slightly to the left, and his brain can’t wrap itself around the subtle change. Years past, he would have quieted his mind with something more potent than adrenaline, but now he is resigned to waiting for the sensation to pass. Thoughts replay over and over in his head, cycling too fast to analyse properly, adding a layer of frustration to his mood. Sherlock wishes he could make it all stop- halt the pointless storm of thoughts and make everything quiet again so he can sleep.</p><p>He wants John.</p><p>He stops mid-step. Is that what this is? The restlessness? A desire not to be alone? No- he’s more than happy being alone. Alone protects him. Besides, the last thing he wants is someone else in here trying to calm him— it only ever serves to infuriate him further. Yet the desire to have John beside him is undeniable.</p><p>He resolves to walk up the stairs before he can change his mind. The wooden floorboards creak as he ascends each step, not bothering to be quiet. John is not a light sleeper.</p><p>As Sherlock opens the door, the doctor is curled in the fetal position, each muscle in his back tight and strained against his pyjama top. Sherlock can tell he’s not asleep; John tends to sleep on his back, very straight, as if he’s used to sleeping on narrower mattresses. He pads over to the bed and sinks into it, immediately feeling the itching sensation ease. Interesting.</p><p>“Couldn’t sleep?” John asks.</p><p>Sherlock stifles an eye-roll. John can be so very obvious sometimes. He closes his eyes, not with the intention of sleeping, but enjoying the sensory relief. John’s bed is cool against his skin, and the sheets are stiffer than Sherlock’s— they feel different against his bare legs. He’s not sure he could sleep here for any length of time— he’s spent a long time finding precisely the right pillows and softness of duvet for his own bed— but the sensations provide a welcome distraction from the storm inside his brain. Instead of pointless questions, he can focus on the scratch of cotton against his toes; the firmness of polyester under his neck.</p><p>“I can feel you watching me.”</p><p>“Sorry,” John whispers, but Sherlock doesn’t hear him move, and the prickling sensation that comes from being watched persists. Is this how John feels, each time Sherlock deduces where he’s been or what his plans for the evening are?</p><p>“It’s okay.” He opens his eyes and catches a question in John’s face. The muscles are relaxed, his eyes searching. For the first time, Sherlock can’t automatically figure out what is going on in John’s head. Whether that is due to the exhaustion that is slowly creeping into Sherlock’s veins, he isn’t sure. But he’s surprised at how much he doesn’t mind not being able to just read everything he wants to know. With anyone else, it would infuriate him; this need to ask questions rather than tell what they are thinking with a cursory glance. But John has always been different. He has always been a mystery that Sherlock is desperate to solve.</p><p>“What are you thinking?”</p><p>“Why you?” John replies, his eyes scanning Sherlock’s face as if the answers lie beneath his skin. That unsettles him slightly—confusion flashes across Sherlock’s face before he can compose himself.</p><p>“Sorry?”</p><p>“I spent years in the middle of a war zone. I chase adrenaline as if I need it to breathe, but in all my life, I have only ever met one person I was ready to hand my life to without question. Why was it you?”</p><p>Was that how John felt? That his life was Sherlock’s do to with as he pleased? Sherlock is sure he should be flattered, but that isn’t the case. It’s unsettling that John trusted him to keep them alive when Sherlock himself had been so terrified. John was the one who normally nagged him to take care of himself; who made him plates of food on his bad days, and placed cups of tea at his elbow to make him drink. John was constantly keeping Sherlock alive, and now the tables have turned, he doesn’t know how comfortable he is at the idea that John has such implicit faith in him.</p><p>“Was it me? Or was it to stop Moriarty?”</p><p>“Maybe it was both.”</p><p>“John, have you ever considered that above everything else, you just like to help people? Yes, you love the adrenaline and the danger, but you also like being the hero.”</p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>“Think about it, you don’t actively seek activities that would give you an adrenaline rush. You don’t do extreme sports, most of your life is very ordinary, except for when someone else needs you. Then you step up, you put yourself in situations that you wouldn’t normally dream of. It’s why you joined the army, and it’s why you stayed with me.”</p><p>It was something Sherlock had noticed early on. John thrives on the franticness of their cases; flirting with danger as readily as Sherlock, but in-between the crime scenes and midnight chases, he is exceptionally ordinary. John doesn’t have any unusual hobbies— he unsuccessfully tries to hide his mild irritation at Sherlock’s riskier experiments, and, unlike Sherlock, John doesn’t go out of his way to put himself in danger. He is always the one to insist on a plan before chasing criminals through dark alleyways. Given Sherlock’s habit of following his instinct rather than thinking his actions through, they would have been in deep trouble if John was equally as impulsive.</p><p>So, it isn’t the adrenaline John craves. Sherlock had thought about it for a long time, trying to understand what it was that made John Watson tick, but the answer hadn’t hit him until the Bruce-Partington case. Nothing was exciting there, no reason for John to want to be involved, yet he took it upon himself to investigate behind Sherlock’s back. John genuinely wanted to help people. It shouldn’t have been a surprise, he was a doctor after all, but Sherlock found himself analysing John in a whole new light.</p><p>“You don’t need me.”</p><p>Sherlock’s stomach lurches as if he’s been punched. Was it not obvious? Did John not see his worth? If John believes that he is merely following Sherlock around, chasing his coattails and gently observing at crime scenes, then Sherlock needs to change his tact. There has never been anyone he needs more than John Watson.</p><p>Initially, he had tried to distance himself; rejecting John’s tentative advances over dinner at Angelo’s. He has no interest in dating for the sake of it. Why actively search for someone who will most likely get bored and leave in a few months? What is the point? He understands sexual desire, but relationships are not a requirement for sex. There is no need to make yourself vulnerable to a stranger for the sake of sexual intimacy. Yet he had grown closer to John that he’d been expecting. He does need John- he needs the calm that he’s brought him. John cuts through all of Sherlock’s bullshit and expects a level of humanity that Sherlock had grown in the habit of disregarding. John knows what makes Sherlock work— he’s endeared by his deductions, and he allows Sherlock to be himself without expectation. John genuinely enjoys his company, and that is a drug more powerful than Sherlock had ever expected. Sometimes, he’s filled with regret for rejecting John so early on. Whilst he does not actively seek relationships, he is starting to understand their appeal.</p><p>“You underestimate yourself. Anyway, you help people. I solve people’s murders, you save their lives.”</p><p>It’s a far cry from what he wants to say, but he can’t seem to find the right words. That’s never been a problem before.</p><p>“You need me?”</p><p>His heart melts a little.</p><p>“Of course, I need you. You— you keep me right.”</p><p>A warm smile spreads across John’s face, and Sherlock’s heart stutters. Shit. Forget being interested in the possibility of a relationship, he’s already fallen far harder than expected. The question is merely what to do about it. He’s not sure if he’s quite ready to make the leap just yet— to close the gap between them and jump headfirst into the space beyond friendship. There’s trepidation in John’s face, and Sherlock is almost sure that he’s seeing a reflection of his own thoughts.</p><p>“I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”</p><p>“Oh, shut up. I can be nice sometimes.”</p><p>“Sometimes being the optimal word.”</p><p>Sherlock feels his lips mirror John’s grin, the serious mood broken. Their giggles sound loud in the silence, and for a moment, the events of the pool are forgotten. There is no Moriarty, no pool and no snipers, only Sherlock Holmes and John Watson; consulting detective and his blogger.</p><p>For the first time that evening, Sherlock feels his eyelids become heavy; his mind settled. There are still a thousand questions rushing through his brain, but they are slower- easier to identify and file away in his mind palace. He reaches across the bed and wraps his fingers around John’s, bringing their hands up to his lips and brushing the ghost of a kiss across John’s knuckles. The doctor’s eyes flutter closed; smile still perched on the edge of his lips; the echo of a gentle squeeze on Sherlock’s palm. There is the mutual understanding that whatever this is, whatever place they are both falling to, they are doing it together. There is no rush— no grand declarations of love or frenzied kisses in the stairwell, only the gentle agreement to follow each other wherever this leads. Sherlock knows, as he drifts slowly into the arms of sleep, that as long as he has a say, a hero’s death will not await them both.</p>
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